


Roses

by GEGabriels



Series: Flowers [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Depressed Combeferre, Gen, Illnesses, M/M, One Shot, Roses, Suicide, it's literally just angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2020-09-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:02:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26229133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GEGabriels/pseuds/GEGabriels
Summary: "Give this one to Combeferre," He directed in a soft voice, taking the other two roses, and examining them. They were perfect. Beautiful. He pressed them to his heart for a second, before raising them in the air, the others doing the same as he did. The roses were kept in the air for a few more seconds, before each of their respective owners takes them downA horrible death of one of their own leaves the Amis horrifed, and shaken. Shows how Grantaire, Courfeyrac, and Combeferre learn how to cope. Or how to not cope.
Relationships: Combeferre & Courfeyrac & Enjolras (Les Misérables), Combeferre & Enjolras (Les Misérables), Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Series: Flowers [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1909771
Comments: 11
Kudos: 24





	Roses

"Buying them for a partner?" The flower shop employee asked, handing Grantaire the red roses he had purchased. Grantaire gave her a bitter smile,

"You could say that…" He murmured, "Thank you, ma'am," He added, because that sounded like something Enjolras would say. He carefully counted the roses, giving a nod when he saw the exact number he had ordered, before giving the employee the money for them. She gave him a carefree smile, which Grantaire did his best to mimic, before she turned to the person behind Grantaire, and Grantaire got the heck out of the flower shop.

He walked out to his car, a small grey one, placing the roses gently in the passenger's seat, and literally strapping them in with the seatbelt, before he started the car. The drive to the Musain only took a few minutes. He lived in a relatively small town. He took the roses out of the passengers' seat, holding them close to his chest. People walked by the Musain. Couples, holding hands. Mother with children. Some people alone. They all smiled. Grantaire felt a slight resentment for them in his heart. How dare they? On this day, no one should smile. On this day, everyone should weep. Everyone should grieve. And yet, they didn't. Because they didn't know who he was. Life had robbed him of his dreams, dreams that one day would have had people flooding the streets, singing for freedom.

Fate was not Grantaire's friend. Fate was no one's friend, in the end. Even those who were happy to wait in the shadows, welcoming death's embrace, were there because of whatever twisted thing fate had previously pulled on them. Fate was despicable. Grantaire stepped inside the Musain, making his way to the backroom. He took a deep breath, as he walked inside of it. He was greeted by dull faces, and empty eyes. Sitting in the center of it all, was Courfeyrac, the sunlight shining lightly on his black curls making it look as if they were glowing at the ends. No doubt Fate taunting Grantaire. Courfeyrac looked up at him, clearing his throat,

"I'm… Leading this one," He whispered, looking down at his shoes, "Combeferre won't come out of his room." He informed, his voice cracking slightly. Grantaire reached out to him, using the hand that wasn't clutching the roses, and touched Courfeyrac's shoulder gently. Courfeyrac gave him a small, sad smile, a far cry from the exuberant, joyful ones he'd previously worn. Everyone else in the room was silent, even Bahorel, who was notorious for regularly doing the exact opposite.

Grantaire took the roses, removing one carefully, so he did not touch it's thorns. He passed one to Courfeyrac, who simply stared at it listlessly, and took another, giving it to Feuilly, then to Bahorel, Jehan (Who began crying at the sight of it), Joly, Bossuet, Marius, Eponine, and even little Gavroche, who was sitting beside his sister, swinging his legs while staring at the floor. Grantaire had only three roses remaining. He took one, giving it to Feuilly,

"Give this one to Combeferre," He directed in a soft voice, taking the other two roses, and examining them. They were perfect. Beautiful. He pressed them to his heart for a second, before raising them in the air, the other doing the same as he did. The roses were kept in the air for a few more seconds, before each of their respective owners takes them down.

"Meeting dismissed early, today. Everyone, take some time for yourselves," Courfeyrac announced, his head hanging. Everyone was quick to leave the Musain, other then Gavroche, who walked over to Grantaire, his hands shaking as he gripped his rose, Eponine waiting for him in the doorway.

"Give mine to Enjolras, please," He whispered, Grantaire cupping his cheek, and giving him a tight hug, before Gavroche rushed after Eponine. Grantaire turned to Courfeyrac who had now seemed to have taken the time to examine the flower in his hands.

"You going to be okay?" Grantaire asked, Courfeyrac giving him a small nod,

"I feel I should be asking you the same," He mumbled back, Grantaire patting his shoulder,

"I'll be fine… We'll both be fine," He affirmed, though in his mind, he knew it wasn't true. Nothing would ever be okay again. There just didn't seem to be a way to move past it.

" _We'll be fine…_ " Courfeyrac repeated, laying his head down on the table with a sigh. Grantaire turned around, leaving the room, his three roses held more delicately by him then one would hold an infant.

…..

Grantaire's reaction to the both horrifying, yet noble occasion, was to simply grieve. Be left alone, and cry. Break down. Curse fate, or whatever God it was his friends so admirably spoke of, curse the world.

When he reached his apartment, he didn't feel ready. His insides flipped, as he walked into his living room, still holding his remaining roses. There, in front of him, was the door. It was barricaded by two chairs, as sometimes, Grantaire didn't even want to look at it. And others he yearned for what was behind it. Grantaire removed the chairs, his hand stopping just above the doorknob to the room. His hand shook, and his heart began beating rapidly, as he forced his hand down to touch the door. And then, he summoned up enough courage to open it.

It was exactly as it had been before. And that's what drove Grantaire to his knees, the roses falling out of his hands, and landing safely on the carpet. It was what drove Grantaire to tears. Ever since it had happened, he'd refused to go into the room. Because he knew the reaction he'd have. Grantaire gazed at the room. The room that had once held so much warmth, so much life. It was like staring at an abandoned town. The room was still adorned in a weird combination of red (courtesy of Enjolras), and green (Grantaire, of course). The bed, which had a white comforter on it, was the most painful to look at. There were no more indents on it, from where people had once regularly slept, Those had faded over time. The beds covers were still pulled down, and all of the blankets were in disarray, though. It showed his panic, when he had woken up and found Enjolras not breathing at his side.

Grantaire staggered to his feet, after grabbing the two precious flowers, as Gavroche's flower had been placed safely above the coffee maker, and staggered his way over to Enjolras' desk. Where Enjolras practically had lived. There were papers cluttered everywhere, papers that maybe one day Grantaire would have the guts to go over. Enjolras' laptop sat in the middle of the desk, a small container open next to it, of what once had been something edible, but had molded over so profusely, it was hard to tell what it had been. And on the corner of the desk, was a red ribbon. Enjolras had always used it to tie back his hair. Grantaire took the ribbon, tenderly tracing his thumb over it, before setting it down on the bed, and grabbing Enjolras red jacket, which had gathered quite a bit of dust on it. He placed them down together, laying across from them. He closed his eyes, for a moment pretending Enjolras was laying across from him. They were just sleeping at night, and everything was fine. Everything was fine…. Everything was fine….

It wasn't. Nothing was fine. Nothing was fine with the fact that Fate had just decided to take away the one person Grantaire was certain could change the world. Enjolras, who was so capable of love, no matter how small or large the being was, how rich or how poor. Enjolras, who was possibly the most passionate human being Grantaire had ever met. Enjolras, who'd always been at his side. Enjolras was dead.

"You confuse me, Enj," He whispered to the jacket and the ribbon, which did not respond, like Enjolras would have. They just sat. They weren't Enjolras. Nothing could ever be Enjolras ever again. "You fight against the police, you fight against the most fearsome people our country has to offer, you survive being shot on two seperate occasions, and a fever takes you down?" He whispered, lifting his hands up, as if Enjolras was somehow magically in the sky, and his hands would come down to join Grantaire's.

"Without you, we're nothing, Enjolras. We're broken. You can't even hear me now, can you?!" Grantaire yelled, tears streaming down his face, "BECAUSE YOU'RE FUCKING _DEAD!_ " Grantaire let a sob escape his throat, and he cried.

"You had so much more to do... You were going to change the world, Enj, I know it…" Grantaire gasped in between sobs. The hair ribbon and the jacket did not move. Grantaire sniffled, taking the roses,

"I shall not cry any more, if only for you, my love," He said, "If you're listening to me, you deserve a happy face. You deserve the world. The world didn't deserve you." He forced himself to smile, and took one of the roses, getting out of the bed, and setting it on the desk, before he turned back to the bed, putting it on top of the jacket. For a few seconds, he pretended Enjolras was in bed. Grantaire could swear he felt the sunlight in the window shift, casting the jacket, ribbon, and rose in a glowing light, that almost seemed to impersonate Enjolras himself. Enjolras, the burning light.

He placed his hand down over the jacket, a few of his tears staining the exposed white mattress gray.

" _Happy birthday, my love,_ " He whispered.

…..

Courfeyrac sat slumped on the Musain table long after everyone had left, still fingering the rose Grantaire had given him.

"It's like you," He suddenly murmured, out to the shadows that seemed to live in the corners of the Musain. "It's prickly, but It's beautiful," He observed, stroking the delicate petals of the flower.

"Great, now I'm talking to a dead person. Way to go, Courf, you couldn't possibly get anymore crazy," Courfeyrac scolded himself, gritting his teeth. The Musain had once been a strange sight to see in total silence. If there had been silence at the Musain, then something was wrong. The Musain openly embraced silence now, after Combeferre had gotten the phone call during one of their meetings.

" _He's not breathing… Ferre, Oh my God, he's not breathing! Please, no, Enjolras!"_ Courfeyrac had been close enough to Combeferre to hear the entire conversation. And it still haunted him. Silence was definitely the new norm, as half the time now, Courfeyrac was the only person who showed up to meetings.

"Is this what it felt like, Enjolras? To be the leader?" Courfeyrac questioned, standing up from his chair, and walking to one of the window. Courfeyrac wasn't supposed to be the new leader. That was Combeferre's job. But as Combeferre began to sink deeper and deeper into a pit of depression Courfeyrac didn't even know if he could pull him out of, the job had fallen to Courfeyrac. And Courfeyrac had been doing his best. He tried not to look like everything was killing him from the inside. Even when it was.

"I don't know what I'm supposed to do, Enjolras. I'm not you. I'll never be you." Courfeyrac exclaimed, kicking his foot against a chair for good measure. Though, all that left him with was an aching right foot. A small breeze came from a window that had been left open, by Marius no doubt, as Courfeyrac had to constantly scold him on why the windows needed to stay shut when they left. The breeze picked up the rose, slightly, playfully rolling it into a blank sheet of paper someone had left, which had a pencil beside it. Courfeyrac walked over to the pencil and paper, giving the rose a funny look. Courfeyrac picked up the pencil, frowning at the paper.

"You were going to do so many things… My friend. You never got to finish them. Let me carry them on for you," He promised, beginning to write. Another breeze came from the window, tickling Courfeyrac's chin, and ruffling a few of his longer curls. Courfeyrac let out a strangled laugh, If his past self had heard it, he would have been horrified at the sound, but Courfeyrac hadn't laughed in who knew how long. It was good, in a way.

"You never really leave, do you? You're always here," Courfeyrac mused, and he was responded to by the clouds parting from the sun, creating a golden effect on the once dark Musain.

"What was it Ferre always used to tell us when we were kids? The kind of cheesy one? Oh right, whether close together, or far apart, you will always, be in my heart," He recited softly, the wind giving him one final gust, before calming. Courfeyrac took the rose he had, and hung it at the window.

"You'll always be in my heart, Enj," He whispered.

…..

One can die before their body does. You can shatter a person's soul. Break them into a million pieces. Combeferre felt like he was in shattered, at the moment. Like he was one of those jigsaw puzzles he used to love to play around with when he was a younger child. He was missing pieces. And whenever Combeferre had tried to complete a puzzle when he was younger, and when he found he was missing a piece, he, calm demeanor be damned, would sweep all of the pieces off the table, or whatever platform he was playing on, in frustration, entirely destroying it, before putting it back into its box, and waiting for another.

Combeferre was kneeled on the floor of his bedroom, clutching a pillow to his chest like a lifeline. Holding it gave him a small hint of a familiar thing. He had held Enjolras first, when the boy was only a few hours old, and Combeferre was only five. He had marveled over the babies angelic features, and had given him back to his mother in hesitance. He had held Enjolras many times over when he was two, and Combeferre became Enjolras' and Courfeyrac's 'official watcher.' He had held Enjolras when he was crying, or ill, or upset. Even when they were adults, the physical contact between the Triumvirate had never ceased. Which was why his arms felt empty. It wasn't just his arms. Everything felt empty.

He'd been there for Enjolras since the blonde was born. He'd watched him grow up. And now, Enjolras, the man he'd poured so much of his life into, the man who was everything to him (Besides Courfeyrac). Enjolras was no longer alive. On some of his good days, Combeferre would go back through what exactly had happened to lead up to the events of the death of the angel.

Combeferre should have known. He told himself that, over and over again. He should have realized that the sheer amount of fevers Enjolras had been coming down with was way too high. But, no. It had been Grantaire who had dragged Enjolras over to the doctor during a particularly debilitating bout of illness. The doctors had said he was fine. The doctors were liars. _Liars. Liars. Liars._ Enjolras had died two days after the visit.

 _Liars, liars, liars…_ Sometimes, on bad days, Combeferre would lie to himself. Tell himself Enjolras was still alive. It was all just a dream. A nightmare. It wasn't. On even worse nights, Combeferre would entirely forget what had happened, and go through the exact same horrific shock he had gone through when he had first heard of Enjolras' passing. During those days, Courfeyrac would remain at his house, though Combeferre would barely notice him. Courfeyrac would wrap his arms around Combeferre, whispering comforting words to him, as Combeferre often used to do for Enjolras. On those very bad days, Combeferre was pretty sure Courfeyrac had been begging him something. He could never quite remember what it was, though.

Combeferre's gaze shifted toward the rose, which was perched on the edge of his dresser. Feuilly had come by earlier, and given it to him. Combeferre had simply put it up there, and gone back to kneeling on the carpet, begging God for mercy. Begging for him to just end Combeferre right then and there. It was Enjolras' birthday, that day. Combeferre had never felt so alone, and had never missed Enjolras as much as he was now. Combeferre picked up the rose, curiously inspecting it. Just like Enjolras, the flower was so beautiful, and delicate looking, but full of thorns as well.

Combeferre glared at the rose. Glared at his entire life, which seemed to be flashing before his eyes, before he slowly brought the rose down towards his arm. And he slashed at it. The blood that trickled out of the wound was oddly satisfying, even though it stung. Maybe, Combeferre deserved that pain. He slashed at it again, hiding a muffled yelp at the pain inside his white shirt sleeve, which was quickly becoming speckled with droplets of blood. Combeferre took the rose again, tearing into the skin of his arm, which looked quite pale in contrast to the scarlet blood. With the thorn, he etched the word, " **Empty,"** onto his arm. Then, he dug around the bottom drawer of the dresser. Where the knife is.

It's silver, and glimmers in the slight sunlight shining from the window. Combeferre holds it up, examining it. Before holding it down to his own throat, and giving out a shaky breath. Outside, the sun slowly peeked behind the clouds, as there was a single horrible gargling sound from Combeferre's room. Then silence. Perhaps Combeferre should not have so many white colored objects in his room. It was to late for him to contemplate his thoughts now.

" _I will be with you soon, my friend."_

**Author's Note:**

> ... I'm sorry? Idek what happened here, I just thought roses, and this appeared. Anyways...
> 
> Hope you enjoyed & please review


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